


no labour, nor no shame in this

by Young John Silver (quodpersortem)



Series: The Fucking Cabin 'Verse [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, black sails mmom, there is a scarf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 22:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7140116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quodpersortem/pseuds/Young%20John%20Silver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the sequel/accompanying piece to <i>doing, a filthy pleasure</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	no labour, nor no shame in this

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from the likewise titled poem by gaius petronius (x)

Flint is the captain over the Walrus for many, many reasons.

His men may not trust him, but they respect him. He is very, very good with war tactics, and not bad at the political side of things either.

He is often cunning, but is perceptive always.

When he finds his cabin not quite as he’d left it, suspicion rises immediately. The chair looks sat upon—smudged with some filth, even—and the bottom drawer is not closed entirely. Almost as though someone left in a hurry. A quick glance over to the cupboards behind the captain’s seat tell him that the feathers are still well in place—although even if they had not been, there is very little of value inside.

Breathing through his quickening heartbeat, refusing to panic or put the blame upon the only person on board who has snuck into his cabin without permission before, he goes through his drawer.

Inside the first two, he finds nothing amiss. Most importantly, the logbook is still there, as are all its pages.

The bottom drawer’s contents are in slight disarray.

With a frown, Flint rummages about—finds that curiously enough, he misses a blotting cloth and his vial of oil is misplaced to the wrong side of the drawer.  The only logical explanation he can think of is that someone must have wanted to write down secret information but he needs just a glance to see that his quill was left untouched.

He goes over the past events again. Someone went into his cabin, looked through his drawer and somehow managed to only touch the oil Flint uses when he—

His guts start to twist themselves into unpleasant knots as he puts the vial down on the table. Just to check the level—just so he can see if some is missing. It’s not hard to see that three quarters of oil are gone, and it has not leaked out amongst the ink cloths.

Swallowing hard, Flint puts back the vial to the side it belongs, and closes the drawer before picking up his log book and noting down the coordinates of today.

-

Knowing that someone went into his cabin for the specific purpose of stealing oil and self-pleasure while Flint was ashore leaves him feeling uncomfortable for a good while longer.

He knows the men are somewhat surprised by his aflame temper and he hears cut-off whispers, enough to gather some knowledge of the rumours passing amongst the crew.

It’s days, at most, before Silver comes into Flint’s cabin. He has his hair tied back and there are little braids dangling down his shoulders, the expression on his face carefully composed and maintained even though his entire demeanour appears flustered as he sags down in the chair opposite Flint’s.

“What is it?” Flint asks him.

Silver groans as he sags back into the chair further, covering his eyes with his hand. “I was the one to enter your cabin.”

“Beg your pardon?” Flint barely manages to say the words, because even though he should not be surprised—he finds that he is, shockwaves flowing through his body as he shifts in his chair as his stomach drops down to join his guts.

“I,” Silver repeats, and it sounds painful even to Flint’s ears as he forces out his apology. “I was the one to impede upon your privacy. You can stop being fidgety with the crew, now. Please.”

There is no doubt to the sincerity in Silver’s voice, even if the _why_ is still a little beyond Flint’s understanding. They were ashore after all—if Silver had wanted oil, he could have asked anybody to bring it on board for him and they likely would not have asked nor charged him for it. If he had wanted privacy, the forecastle was likely deserted anyway.

But even as Flint wants to ask, Silver gets up and gives him an apologetic shrug.

“I am sorry for what I have done,” he says. “Again.” He smirks self-depreciatingly before shaking his head. “I do have to keep apologising to you, don’t  I?”

Flint takes a long, hard look at Silver. Silver looks rather upset, the tips of his ears are bright red and his cheeks are flushed. He is avoiding Flint’s gaze, instead toying with the edge of the leather boot that straps around the remainder of his leg.

Ordinarily, Flint would have had any man to do such a thing shamed in front of the entire crew. Somehow, he finds that with Silver, he cannot bear that thought—and it is not because Silver is the elected quartermaster.

Instead he finally sighs, lets his head hang down as he contemplates whether to punish Silver or to simply let him go. In the end, Flint figures that Silver has done nothing to breach his trust—not really—so he takes a deep breath.

“You have been dismissed,” he says. “But don’t do _anything_ like this again, are we agreed?”

Silver nods and gets up from his chair before Flint has as much of a chance to blink.

After the cabin door slams closed, Flint groans as he rubs at his eyes.

He had wished for Silver to throw unexpected twists at him months ago, and here he is, half-hard at the idea of his quartermaster going through his things simply to masturbate.

It explains why Silver had been so embarrassed whenever Flint had called him to the captain, fidgeting whenever Flint would be sitting in this very chair. In hindsight, it is all quite obvious to him, down to the moment when he first saw Silver after boarding the ship and finding his quartermaster turn his back to Flint, pretending to note down which stock had been put into the hold even though Flint very well knew that the men had not gotten around to restocking the ship yet.

While it pacifies a part of Flint’s mind—namely, knowing who had entered his cabin, and knowing that it is one of his very few trustees—it upsets a different, larger part of him.

Instead of addressing the issues warring inside of him, however, he instead busies himself yet again with his logbook, after which he walks several rounds across the ship and finally settles in bed with _Meditations_.

All he can think about is that Silver still refuses to meet his eyes.

-

Sleep won’t come that night.

Flint all but sees Silver’s ghost, right there in the captain’s chair. It should make him feel terrible—Silver is a threat, bigger than England could ever be, and his own years over Silver are slowly starting to count as a disadvantage.

Instead it leaves him frustrated, hot enough to throw off his blankets and then pull off his night shirt as well. Even then all he can think of are Silver’s nimble fingers, rummaging through his drawers before finding the oil.

It doesn’t take much to call up the idea of Silver with his thighs spread, sat in Flint’s chair with his hard cock in his hands. Flint’s heart starts to thump harder right away, his cock growing fuller between his legs even as he tries to chase the image from his mind.

Every time he turns, the thought jumps back to his mind.

Silver panting, pouring oil onto his dick. Silver coming into the ink blotter he stole—the reason obvious now. Silver, looking marvellous with his long hair sticking to his sweaty face and his face flushed, a dopey smile on his face that is reminiscent of the way he looked when he was using opium but much happier.

Finally, Flint gives in with a grunt.

He stomps over to the desk, feeling the wood and the carpet under his bare feet.

He only grabs the scarf and the oil, because even if he won’t use the latter—just the fucking idea that his absolute idiot of a quartermaster used it makes Flint’s dick twitch.

Then he returns to his bed and lies down on his back, gritting his teeth as he wraps the scarf around his hard-on.

It’s perfect silk, woven in India and stolen from the captain’s cabin of a Portuguese ship. He knows he should have used it as a bargaining gift, or at the very least not _this_ —but the moment he’d held the thin fabric in his hands he knew he couldn’t part with it.

When he looks down, he finds the head of his cock popping up from the deep blue fabric, red and shiny, and he groans as he uses his thumb to drag the silk over it as well, thrusting up only once before he stops himself, afraid to tear the fabric.

Silver comes back to his mind; Flint wonders if he’d enjoy this. If he’d let Flint tie the scarf around his cock tight enough to restrict blood flow, leaving him gasping and begging for more as Flint teases him.

Then he thinks of Silver naked, spread out on this very bed and wanton for more while Flint won’t give him more than a few teasing touches, draping the silk over his cock without any pressure. Imagines Silver again, this time thrusting into him, hot and soft on the inside like the silk he presses tighter around his cock as he brings himself off as slow as he can.

It is still not quite as languid as he’d like, the feeling so much like—like _he_ had felt, like he knows Silver would feel if he were to submit to Flint.

His mouth is drying up and his thighs are growing tense as Flint finally takes away the silk. It is not so much because he wants to, because it feels amazing, as much as that he needs to. For a moment, it sticks to his wet skin, his entire cock now shiny with his own excitement in the moonlight as it dribbles out some more of the clear liquid, and he is tempted to push the silk into a ball and fuck it until it falls apart in shreds.

Instead he lowers it onto the floor in the knowledge that he will have to wash it out tomorrow or preferably later tonight regardless; then he takes his cock in his fist.

The sensations come through much harsher this time around, and Flint groans as his back arches off his bed. He imagines Silver’s calloused hand around his dick, Silver’s mouth biting at his neck with the frustration of Flint withholding him of quite the same pleasures as of yet, a decent punishment for sneaking into Flint’s belongings.

He’d be desperate for it, unwillingly so, but falling to his knees to suck off Flint regardless—or he’d resume his previous position in the chair, showing Flint exactly what he’d done—or he’d allow himself to be tied to the bed, the scarf between his teeth to keep him from shouting out and letting everybody know what their captain was doing to their quartermaster—

And then Flint is spilling onto his stomach, his hips forcefully punching up into the air with very contraction and wringing groans from his chest that do not cease until he is fully spent.

His sweat is cool on his skin, and he uses the scarf to mop up the seed from his belly; the little pool right above his navel refuses to be wiped up at once and leaves a faintly sticky trace.

Staying in his bed, he reaches up to dump the scarf into the washing basin which he knows is still filled with mostly-fresh water from when he had shaved that morning. It will have to do for now anyway because exhaustion is finally settling into his bones, allowing him to let go of his thoughts.

And with his mind finally clearing, there is no space left for shame.  There is just the glorious realisation that no, he has not forgotten how to do this, regardless of the past ten years, of his worries and fears.

No worries either, as to how he will have to face Silver tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> there... will likely be a third and concluding part to this *wink wink nudge nudge*


End file.
